


Knight of the Swamp

by AetherAria



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (for R&D and Arum), (for rilla&damien), ??? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dueling, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, Fealty Dynamics, Lizard Kissin' Tuesday (Penumbra Podcast), Love Confessions, Mira is not Queen yet, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon AND Alt-Canon at the same time!! fun!!!, Second Citadel (Penumbra Podcast), Slow Burn, i don't know how to... describe this...., some characters tagged will not appear until later chapters!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29663700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherAria/pseuds/AetherAria
Summary: Perhaps the King should have known better than to force Sir Damien to choose between his heart and his oaths.
Relationships: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla (Penumbra Podcast), Sir Damien/Rilla (Penumbra Podcast)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Help, I've Fallen Into Another AU And I Can't Get Up,,, help,,,,,,, my brain is being eaten. Also this is.... BASICALLY the evil twin of the ceasefire au fic? it is the opposite in many ways. i would explain exactly how, but spoilers. and no song title!!! who the hell even AM I??? What the fuck. anyway. enjoy??? I hope???? The title will make sense..... presently. Also this whole thing can and should be traced directly back to tumblr users ceridawn and tanoraqui, who were [discussing the idea of Damien swearing himself to the Swamp of Titan's Blooms](https://damienthepious.tumblr.com/post/643339713784233984/hey-can-i-yell-for-a-moment-about-the-second), and i lost my mind about the idea. bless <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry no arum yet..... no lizzers this week.... T.T) edit: cw for threats of violence/death this chapter.

They arrive at dusk.

Damien's mind is empty, as they ride. Blank, and hollow. He thinks, perhaps, that he would need to descend from his horse, to kneel by the roadside, to breathe into his hands and be sick in the bushes, if he did not need to keep his own steed apace with Sir Ector's, riding beside him.

His mind is empty, but for a quiet, continuous note of despair, which seems to grow louder the moment that Rilla's small, humble hut comes into view around a bend in the road. The knight beside him spits on the road, mutters something under his breath as if warding off a curse, and then he shoots Damien a wary look.

Damien presses his lips together, stares at the flicker of light in Rilla's windows, and urges his horse forward.

He can smell supper cooking as he dismounts. He can hear her humming, through the thin walls. He hears her breathe a laugh when he knocks, and Damien feels _sick_ all the way to his marrow.

Her eyes are warm as she swings the door open, and her smile looks almost giddy for a moment before her eyes flick over his shoulder. The smile does not last beyond that.

Rilla opens her mouth, but no words come. She drops her hand from the doorframe, her expression wary as she steps back, a stilted retreat into the safety of her home. Or- not safety. What _should_ be safety, he thinks, the note of despair rising to crescendo. It should be- she _should_ be-

Sir Ector jerks his head, and Sir Damien forces himself to breathe as he follows Rilla into the hut, the other knight trailing in his wake.

She still does not speak. She stands next to her hearth, one hand pressing over her heart and her expression shifting slowly from wariness to anger as she waits.

Damien glances to his- his colleague, and the knight gives him a flat look, and Damien- the King gave this assignment to Sir _Damien_ , not to Sir Ector, and-

And Damien will need to speak. Not his heart, but- his duty.

He inhales. He manages not to choke. He stands a little straighter, and he forces himself to look Rilla in the eyes.

"Amaryllis of Exile, you have been accused-"

Damien's voice fails him. The flatness of Rilla's expression, the hopelessness, the lack of _surprise_ -

"You have been-" his tongue feels too heavy, his head echoing and full of fog. "You are- you are to- to come into-"

Sir Ector steps forward, then, and Rilla's eyes flick to him, filling with fury and a sharp sort of fear that Damien knows that he has never seen in her before.

"You are a _witch_ ," Ector hisses, and Damien's stomach clenches as Rilla's eyes harden. "We are to take you to the Citadel to face judgment." He narrows his eyes, sneering, and then he spits on Rilla's floor. "I don't expect you'll get off so light as _Exile_ again. King Artair has been merciful three times, two for your witch parents and once for your first transgression. Treason, repeated and brazen?" He scoffs. "You'll hang, this time."

Rilla swallows, her expression twitching, and when she flicks her eyes towards Damien again-

She looks _furious_ , yes, but- but beneath the anger, beneath the quiet dignity in the stiffness of her jaw, beneath the clear hurt at Damien's part in this- he can see that Rilla is _terrified_. Even fisted at her sides, her hands are trembling.

"Sir Damien," Ector says, a clear note of smugness in his tone. "The shackles."

Damien clenches his own hands, to hide the way they are shaking as well. He clenches them, until they do not shake at all.

"Sir Damien?"

Damien does not have the excuse that he does not know what he is doing. Damien is perfectly, entirely in control as he whirls, and then he kicks Ector's legs out to send him to his knees, disarming him and tossing his sword to the other side of the room. Then, he presses the man against the floor and pins his arms behind his back.

Damien knows what he is doing. He _knows_ that it is treason. He knows, but-

"Rilla," he says, and she _stares_ at him, her eyes bright with shock. "I can't let them-" he shakes his head. "Whatever you've done, I cannot believe that you are evil. I know- I have seen your heart. I _know_ I have. I will not let them take you-"

Ector thrashes beneath Damien, spitting curses into the floorboards of Rilla's hut as he calls Damien _traitor_ and _coward_ and _spellbound imbecile_ , but Damien only tightens his grip.

"I will not let them take you," he says again. "My heart- my heart could not bear it."

"Damien," she says, his name the first word she's spoken since she saw his face. "Damien, I-"

"I cannot hold him forever. You must run, while you still may. Take whatever you need, and _run_. I cannot save you, but- but I can give you a chance."

"But-"

"It is all I can do for you. I'm sorry."

"But what about _you_?"

Damien blinks, and after a moment he lowers his head with a small, sad smile. "I will prevent this man from pursuing you for as long as I am able," he says quietly. "When others follow to see why we have taken so much time to return, I will bear whatever punishment fits my actions, and I will not regret them."

He keeps his head lowered. After a moment, he realizes that Rilla is not moving, not gathering what she will need to flee, and he hazards another glance towards her.

Her dark eyes shine in the mellow light of her hearth, and Damien wonders by what miracle she may appear to him so utterly, achingly beautiful. Even her despair has the quality of flame.

"There is little time, my flower," he murmurs. "You must go, while you still are able."

She watches him for another moment, taut with unvoiced tension, and then her expression hardens, her brow furrowing with decision, and she spins on her heel, marching to the other side of her kitchen to throw open the cupboards, rummaging through glass jars and bottles.

Damien can't help the smile. Even now, even in this- first, she thinks of her work, her research, her medicine. Before clothing, before shelter, before arming herself-

She makes a small noise as she snatches out one particular bottle, and then she turns away from the cupboard and bolts back across the room towards him, her jaw set as she snatches up a rag from her worktable along the way.

"Rilla-"

She uncaps the bottle, tipping it to wet the rag in her hand with the clear liquid inside, and then she drops to her knees and without a word presses the rag over Sir Ector's face, holding the fabric firmly over his nose and his mouth as he thrashes even harder. He _kicks_ , shouting some furious wordless denial into the cloth for only a moment before his voice dies in his throat and his body goes utterly slack in Damien's grasp.

Damien leans back, terrified and confused and wary of the rag in Rilla's hand even as she tosses it aside on the floor with a look of disgust.

"What- what have you done to him? What was _that_?"

"He's unconscious, not hurt," she says, and her voice is shaky enough that Damien knows that her next words are to some degree bluster. "Nevermind that he probably deserves a kick to the head for talking about me like that. For bringing up my _parents_."

"Why? Why did you-"

"Give us more time," she says, distracted as she stands and spins and begins to gather her belongings, tossing books and jars and small metal tools and reams of loosely bound notes into a wide satchel.

Damien carefully loosens his grip, and when Ector does not try to escape as he does, he leans down, listening to be certain that the man is still _breathing_ beneath his armor. Not- not that he thinks that Rilla would- not that he-

Rilla dashes around the room, her expression set in a mask of determination as she goes, and Damien does not know _what_ to think.

"I could have held him," Damien says, because he feels he should say _something_.

"Not forever," she says. "He'll be out at least a couple hours. Longer, if I give him another dose before we leave."

Damien stands, slowly, gripping tightly to his own sense of control, and he forces himself to exhale. "We?"

Her steps slow, and then she stops entirely, standing tense and uncertain beside her kitchen table before she turns to fix him with her dark, worried gaze. "You… you're going to come with me. Aren't you?"

"Rilla," he breathes, taking half a step closer. "Oh, Rilla, I _can't_ , I have sworn myself and my service to my Citadel, to its people, and I must-"

"Stay here and get Exiled anyway? At _best_?" She scowls, her nose wrinkling, and Damien's heart pulses so hard that it _hurts_. "Damien, you _can't_. You- I don't know why you decided to- to-" she shakes her head. "You can't _stay_."

"I will face whatever punishment comes-"

" _No_. Damien, there's no reason for you to get yourself-"

"I will endure the consequences of my actions. I will not regret them."

"If you don't regret letting me run, run _with_ me. Damien-" she steps closer, lifting a hand towards him. "Damien. Unless you plan on _killing_ that other knight-" Damien flinches, hard, and Rilla smiles, her eyes softening, "and I know you wouldn't, you _won't_ , but- all you're doing is trading yourself for me, and I can't- I can't let you do that. Either they're going to _kill_ you, Damien, or they're going to send you into Exile anyway. Skip the middle _step_ , and just come with me now."

Damien sighs, slow, and closes his eyes for a brief moment. "I'm sorry, Rilla. I must face-"

"Do you think I'm evil?"

Damien flinches again, and Rilla steps even closer. "Rilla-"

"Do you think they would be _right_ to execute me?"

"No! Rilla-"

"Why stop them from taking me?"

"Because it is _wrong_ ," Damien keens. "Because they are _wrong_ about you, it is my duty to serve the King and above even that to serve his subjects. I must protect you and every other citizen like you, and the King is _wrong_ and I-" he inhales sharply, pressing his lips together tight, feeling the blood drain from his face. "I- I shouldn't- shouldn't say- I-"

"He's wrong about me like he was _wrong_ about my parents," Rilla says, her voice sharp and hurt and steady.

"You have saved my life," Damien says breathlessly, "so many times, my flower. Wrapping wounds, counteracting poisons, setting _bones_ , enduring my wretched weakness of the mind all the while and blessing me with your patience and I could not- I simply couldn't-"

"If you think that you're doing the right thing, protecting me," she says, her eyes flicking between his own, "then why should you let them _punish_ you for it?"

"I do not know that I have any other choice." The words catch sharp in Damien's throat. Two hours ago, three, his life- his course had seemed so simple, so _steady_ , and with one single order- with _one_ assignment issued, all of it- all of his accomplishments, all of his goals for his life-

Gone, like a sinking stone.

Damien startles, coming back to himself as Rilla's hand slips around his wrist, gentle.

"You _do_. You do have a choice. Come with me."

He meets her eyes, night-dark and warm like midday.

"I... I know..." he swallows. "I know that you are not evil, my flower. I know that this- that this is _wrong_. They need to know that as well. I need to face them, to speak my heart and-"

Her expression cracks. "And _die_ for it," she spits in a shaking voice.

He pauses, considers for a long moment, and then he turns his hand in her grip, so he may brush his thumb across her pulse. "If they cannot understand. I must speak my heart, my flower. I must speak the truth I have found within it. I must believe that they will see-"

"They _won't_ , Damien. They'll kill you and it's gonna be _my fault_ -"

"Rilla-" he squeezes her hand, but she only shakes her head.

"I can do it. I can- I can start over, I can pack my bags, I can turn my back on a home I worked _so_ h-hard to build for myself, I can- I can run if it means surviving, I can live with that, I can _deal_ with it, but- but I can't- I can't be responsible for- I can't be the reason you die, Damien. It doesn't matter if you're trying to make a _point_ , there won't be anyone to listen to you if you're _dead_. I can't be responsible for that, I just _can't_ , I can't be the reason you die, Damien, I just-"

"Oh, flower." Damien lifts his other hand, brushing a tear from Rilla's cheek as she scowls furiously. "You are... your compassion astounds me, Rilla. Even now, to worry for _me_ \- you are too selfless, too kind, too-"

Her scowl deepens, and she swipes viciously at her own eyes to dispel the rest of the tears before they can fall. "You are _so_ stupid sometimes, I _swear_. This is- this is me being the _most_ selfish that I've ever, ever-"

Damien blinks. "I- I beg your-"

She kisses him, gentle and fierce all at once, one of her hands gripping at his shoulder and the other slipping into his hair, and he _gasps_ against her mouth as he gathers her closer in his arms, and Damien cannot help but think, cannot help but feel his heart pulse again with the thought that her farewell kiss should be so, so beautiful-

She pulls back slowly, her hand still in his hair, tipping their foreheads together with her eyes still closed.

"I love you," she says breathlessly. "I'm _in love_ with you, Damien, I- I'm in love with you and I can't- I _won't_ let you get yourself killed for me."

Damien does not breathe, for a moment, a noise like the ocean rushing in his ears.

( _listen — your heart_ )

Rilla loves him.

All else fades away, inconsequential. There is only his heart. Only his flower, blooming at its center. His flower, whose roots twine within him, forever, forever, forever.

"I love you," he breathes, and it is as if he has been holding that breath since first he laid eyes upon her. It is a truth, a certainty he has known for what feels like a lifetime, and finally acknowledging its truth- he feels as if he has finally broken the surface again. "I love you. I love you, Rilla, oh my Amaryllis I love you, I love you-"

She makes a noise, and then she takes her turn to brush away his tears, her palm caressing his cheek.

"I know," she says in a whisper. "I know, Damien." She kisses him again, softer, surer, and then her grip tightens as her voice goes weak and wavering. "Please, please come with me."

He will.

Damien holds her closer. He presses a kiss to her cheek, breathing easy again for the first time since the King summoned him. "Of course," he murmurs. "Of course I will."

"I'm-" she laughs, watery and weak. "I am so, so sorry, Damien. I'm sorry that this- that you got all wrapped up with- with me-"

"I love you," Damien says again. "I know in my heart that this is right. I know that I belong with _you_."

She smiles, still weak, and sighs, and squeezes his shoulders before she steps away. "I have to- we have to pack."

"We have little time to spare," Damien agrees, nodding. "Tell me what you need, and I shall oblige."

Rilla directs him, and Damien feels... calm. He is still afraid, still wary of the uncertain future, the uncertain path that suddenly stretches before him, before both of them-

But he knows in his heart, in his _soul_ , that this is the right choice. The _only_ choice.

Whatever comes next, they will face it together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are fugitives, now, and they must find somewhere safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooooo boy. Hope y'all like this one? Had to take on a.... ;3 new and interesting perspective, in this chapter. Still no lizzer to kiss, alas, but... he'll be here soon! Promise.

Damien drags Sir Ector, still unconscious, into Rilla's examination room, his wrists bound properly now in the shackles meant for Rilla, and after she gathers what medicine and tools they will be able to carry, Rilla locks that door. Rilla insists that he will not regain consciousness for a while yet ("Not even with a skull as thick as his-"), and the guilt does not quite ease from Damien's stomach, but he does feel much less uncomfortable helping Rilla pack without his fellow knight (rather- former fellow knight?) passed out on the floor only a few feet away.

"I want-" Rilla pauses, biting her lip hard, and then she gives a weak laugh. "I don't want you to- to think that I… I'm not a witch," she says, when she is nearly packed, her tone firm though her expression fills with nerves again.

"I know," Damien says.

"I'm _not_ a witch," she says again, as if she were not expecting him to agree, and then she winces. "But- but that doesn't mean that I'm not- that I haven't been breaking the law."

Damien presses his lips together, and he does not feel entirely surprised.

"To what end?" he asks, simple and, he hopes, without a tone of judgment.

Rilla stares at him for a moment, sighs, and turns, and drops to her knees beside her bed. She pulls a small tool from beneath the slats of her bed, and then she wedges it between her floorboards and pries one open, so she can reach in and lift out a small chest.

"Because magic is a part of our world," Rilla says, unlatching the chest to show a stack of meticulous notes, a handful of books, and some small, carefully sealed jars. "And pretending that it isn't doesn't help anyone. I can't exactly _treat_ what I don't understand." She frowns, brushing her hands over the spines of the books, thumbing the notes as if checking to ensure all of them are there, and then she sighs and latches the chest back shut. "And… and I wanted to know. I wanted to know what my parents were doing, so I could decide for myself if what they were doing was wrong."

Damien watches her for a moment, as she fixes the floorboard back into place, and then she tucks the tool back under her bed. He does not imagine it will get any further use, but- habit is an interesting creature, he supposes.

"Have you found your answer, yet?" he murmurs.

Rilla tucks the chest under her arm, stands, and gives him a grim sort of smile. "I think I found my own answers," she says. "And I can… I can speculate, sure, but- I can't exactly know their real intentions unless- until I meet them again. Someday." She sighs, and then she raises her eyes, fixing Damien with a look that is both worried and curious. "I know I… I pushed you to agree to come with me, but- but I wanted to make sure. To make sure that you know- you know who I am, and- and what you're getting into. When we make it somewhere safe, if you want to- to part ways, or-"

He closes the distance before she can finish the thought entirely, taking her hands and pressing his forehead against her own. "I do not entirely understand, I will admit, and I am- I am more frightened now that I have been since-" he pauses, sighs. "But I… I trust your heart, my Rilla. I think I have… tonight I have received rather an intense curriculum on the subject of disobeying the law to do what I believe is right, after all."

She breathes a laugh, then presses a quick, gentle kiss to his cheek before she pulls away. "Okay. Okay. I just wanted to… I wanted to be honest."

"Thank you." He does appreciate the words, the trust implicit within them. He has already decided, though. He trusts her all the same. Damien presses a hand to her shoulder, and then eyes the window warily. "Would you prefer to bear that weight yourself, love, or should I?"

There isn't much more to pack after that. Rilla stalks around the hut once to double check, and then once more just in case, and then Damien takes her hand as she worries her lip between her teeth and starts to suggest a third pass-

"I think it's time," he says quietly, and she huffs out an unhappy breath even as she squeezes his hand with a nod.

She doesn't cry until they step outside, until she glances back towards the hut with something like a compulsion, until she sees- until she sees what she will be leaving behind.

She treats her tears viciously, rubbing them away before they can fall until Damien pulls her into his arms, and even then- she closes her eyes, her shoulders shaking silently as she presses her face into his neck, but only for only a few heartbeats. She inhales, exhales slow, and then she shakes her head. She raises her chin, rakes her gaze over her home (the one, Damien knows, that she herself built), and then she squeezes Damien's hand.

"C'mon," she says. "We're done here."

  
  


* * *

  
  


They take the horses and ride. Damien strategizes as best he can- they bolt west through the dark, the most direct line away from the Citadel, but only until they come to a river crossing. A ford, shallow and slow, and then they dismount and Damien sends the horses to continue west as he and Rilla wade upstream, and then aim themselves north instead.

Damien knows the knights of the Citadel. He knows that they will be perfectly able to track the horses, at least for a while. Letting them chase the animals in the wrong direction first will give he and Rilla more time. He hopes.

When the sun eventually begins to rise, they stop to rest with their legs sore and their boots full of mud. Far from the road, far from any settlements, as best they can tell. The Northern Wilds are aptly named, and they have found themselves within a truly untamed stretch of the Citadel's surrounding lands.

Rilla tries to insist that Damien sleep first, when they pitch their tent, but-

The tension within him is strung too taut, for rest. He convinces her, gently, to allow him first watch, and as she settles, frowning, on her bedroll, Damien clings to his bow.

Exhaustion drags his love to sleep before she may frown at him too terribly long. Damien watches the jungle surrounding, focused despite his own fatigue, and in a voice of low murmurs, he prays.

He can still feel his Saint, a cool touch at the center of his heart, a rhythmic pulse he has felt since his brush with death in the Western Wastes. He feared-

He truly feared-

Part of Damien had accepted, when he chose to save Rilla, that turning his back on the Second Citadel would likely mean the loss of his Saint, as well.

He is grateful - surprised, but grateful - to still feel the echo of those waves. He will need the Tranquility now, he thinks, more than he ever, ever has.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The jungle shifts around them as they travel, as the days pass. The glossy foliage turns duller, the trees shorter, the ground beneath their feet going mossy and muddy as they make their way north, the humidity thickening to make the air syrupy in the heat. They could almost be grateful to spend their days sleeping, so they may pass more stealthily in the cool night, if the darkness did not come with its own dangers.

Damien has not needed to _fight_ , yet, thankfully. There have been a few close calls, passing knights to hide from and unsettling monstrous growls to send them ducking into the underbrush, holding their breath until the creeping threat passed by for more obvious prey.

Rilla breaks her ankle, a rotting stump caving beneath her stride at just the wrong time, and she is already so tired, so-

He carries her until the light begins to rise with morning, and in the grey before the sunrise Rilla wraps the injury tight, and then she directs Damien to help her build a crutch. He would prefer to keep her off her feet, would prefer to do _anything_ to keep the worry and fear and weariness from growing any deeper lines upon her brow, but-

They still need to find somewhere safe. They cannot stop moving until they do.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The swamp is difficult to navigate. Damien is nearly thankful for the crutch, nearly thankful that they need take their paths so slowly, considering how precarious their footing becomes between sinkholes of mud and twisting roots and beautiful, poisonous plants that Rilla needs steer them away from.

Damien is _tired_.

( _Saint Damien, protect us-_ )

Damien is tired, and he loves Rilla more with each day, and his heart breaks for her every wincing step, and Damien-

Damien does not know how much more they will be able to bear, even sharing the weight between them.

  
  


* * *

  
  


There is an endless dance of life, in the Swamp of Titan's Blooms, and the Keep knows every single step.

Its roots spread to the far borders- its roots _define_ the borders, such as they are. The Keep _is_ the swamp, in one way. In another, it _created_ the swamp, and its presence is a shield, a guardian, a loving embrace, a wellspring. The Keep feels the spark of its own life, twining and growing, hunting and hiding, living and dying, singing and sleeping, above and around and below.

Most of the life within it, within its reach, speaks in croak and trill and squawk and buzz, speaks in creak of branch, in shiver of leaf. Speaks in silence. Speaks in heat. Speaks in crackle of magic. Only its familiar, truly, speaks in the way of _words_.

Which is why the Keep is surprised, when it notices another voice within its embrace.

It is curious, more than anything. The Keep is too ancient to fear a murmuring so small. It is not even worth waking its familiar for, not worth the risk of agitating him to distress for the sake of what may be very little. Only murmuring, only something passing.

It focuses on the voice, recognizing the musicality of it, recognizing the tremulous waver. It focuses, it listens, it peers out-

Oh. Oh, how interesting-

There are humans within the Swamp of Titan's Blooms.

Two, near enough the edge of its awareness that the Keep must assume that they only crossed into the territory within the last few hours, sometime during the night. One sits, with a strangely strung bundle of sticks beside her, and nibbles on some small dried bit of food, her eyes dull and downcast. The other-

The Keep thinks, for a moment, that he is a _knight_ , and worry pulses within it, but- but then it is not so sure. He carries a bow, and he wears armor, certainly, and the armor looks enough like that worn by those the Keep knows stalk the wilds in this era, but the usual sigil on the metal looks as if it has been scraped away, obscured and forcibly faded. He kneels, out of sight of his companion, the thick trunk of a tree between them. He kneels with his knees in the mud, his hands clasped together in front of his chest, his face upturned to the canopy.

"Please," he whispers. "Please, my Saint, I do not- I don't know what to _do_. There is only so much we may endure-"

He pauses. He inhales. He holds that breath.

"I do not know what to do," he says again. "I need- please, please Saint Damien, I need your guidance- I need- still I feel your grace upon me, and I am grateful, endlessly, for your presence, for your understanding. I need- I need your Tranquility, my Saint- I do not- I am so, so afraid- I do not know what to _do_ -"

He lowers his gaze. He presses his eyes tightly closed. He breathes, sharp and quick and shaking.

"Is this… punishment? Is this- is this a test, my Saint? Must we- must we struggle still onward in the darkness, must we earn our safety back? Is this the price, the punishment? Rilla said- Rilla said that I should not bear the punishment of the Citadel, knowing the unjustness- I know I did the right thing, I know she is not evil, I could not let her _die_ , I needed to help! It was my _duty_ to help- my- my duty..."

He pauses. He bites his lip.

"My duty... my purpose is to stand in between harm and the helpless. Regardless of the King, the Citadel- my duty, my duty to _you_ , my Saint, is to stand Tranquil between evil and those that evil would harm- how could I allow them to kill her? Even if I did not love her- even then-"

His eyes, bright and woeful, overflow. Rivulets of tears streak through the dirt on his face, and his expression twists.

"Please," he whispers. "Please, Saint Damien. A sign- a breath- a _direction_ , please- I only… I will endure, my devotion will not wane, I swear it, but please, please- I know you are listening, my Saint, I can _feel_ you within my heart. In moments of stillness I may still hear your waves, feel your cool Tranquility touch me- please-"

The words… the words trickle off, his plea growing incoherent, his tears and his breaths quickening.

Within his heart…

A spark of magic, here. Different from that which dwells within the Keep, and yet-

Ah. Of course.

The Universe desires a good story, the Keep thinks. The Keep knows that its own bark goes soft for a being in such distress. Its familiars often chastise it for the softness, but- the Keep _loves_ life ( _is_ life), creates and nurtures and cherishes, and it pities and feels itself sway for this poor, poor little creature-

The other human hears him, hears his hitching, sobbing breaths, and she blinks in surprise, sets aside what small bits of her meal remain, and wobbles upright. The Keep realizes, now, that her branch- her leg is injured, wrapped tight in pale fabric. That must be the purpose of her strange walking stick, but she does not reach for it. She limps instead, reaching to steady herself on the tree, pulling herself around it until she can see the other human, still knelt as he buries his face into his hands with his shoulders heaving.

"Oh-"

He startles, eyes wide and wet as he stares up at her, and then his breath hitches again. "Rilla I'm- I'm so, so sorry I-" he sucks in a breath, presses his lips tightly closed. "You- you shouldn't be on your feet you- you shouldn't-"

"Shh," she says, stepping closer, and he sags rather than rising to meet her, reaching to grip her waist. "Damien…"

"I only want you _safe_ , my love," he breathes, the tears running rivers down his face again, mixing with the mud beneath them. "I must- I don't know how to- I am so, so sorry-"

"Oh, Damien," she says, her voice a whispery lilt, and then she sinks her fingers into his hair, embracing him as he presses his weeping face into her stomach. "Here- here, it's okay, we'll be okay- we'll-"

He shakes his head, sharp, a small noise of denial scraping up his throat. She draws her fingers through his hair again, looks up and away, and then presses her eyes closed. She strokes his hair, strokes his hair, and then she opens her eyes again.

"It's okay," she says again, more softly. "Let me sing for you, okay? Shh, I've got you, I've got you-"

The maybe-knight shudders a breath, shudders another, and then nods, and above his head her lips twitch into an almost-smile.

She sways, just lightly, to the same rhythm with which she strokes his hair, and then she begins to sing.

" _Meet me by the river_

_Where the elderberries grow._

_When stars are silver_

_No one has to know-_ "

The Keep shivers, surprise, aching familiarity, joy, sorrow, memory buried so safe and deep, in its roots, at its core-

His weeping softens with her voice, his breath coming easier as she soothes him, and the Keep feels…

They are alone. They are frightened. They are worn, and hungry, and struggling, and _alive_. And the Keep is a guardian of life, within this swamp.

As the song continues, the Keep weaves its humming between her notes. It weaves its magic, slowly, with her voice. It thinks that she hears it, hears the harmonies the Keep cocoons them within, but the magic is deeper than her surprise. The Keep will grant them rest, first. It is clear that they need it, after all. It lulls them, and as they drift out of conscious thought it grows softness upon which their bodies can rest. It grows walls of vines and branches around their embracing, slumbering forms, a woven shelter to keep out the rain, to protect them until they wake.

They may rest here, the Keep decides. As long as they need. He asked, after all. For help, for a sign. And she- she _sang_.

The Keep takes joy in the whims of the Universe, and it does not think that the Universe has graced it in such an interesting way in a long, long time.

The Keep is a guardian of life, here, and these creatures are its guests.


End file.
